


Welcome to Shantytown

by Tomatosoupful



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Angst, Coco Locos Angst Off 2018, Denial, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Héctor don't like mirrors ...or books, Pre-Canon, Shantytown, Shantytown deserves more fics, it'll make sense I swear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-27 07:57:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16214795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tomatosoupful/pseuds/Tomatosoupful
Summary: Héctor absolutely doesn’t belong in Shantytown. He’s not being Forgotten.It would be easier to ignore if this grumpy old skeleton would just leave him alone.(summary written by PaperGardener)





	Welcome to Shantytown

**Author's Note:**

> In which Héctor joins Shantytown. Featuring a cardboard box, unexpected fishing trips and books. A lot of books. 
> 
> Angst-Off Entry. Prompt: "Don’t make me do this."

Just when Héctor didn’t think it could rain any harder, it did.

Like a teacher’s ruler slamming on a student’s palm, the intense shower came down fast and unexpected. The cardboard ceiling above him sagged from the building weight. Freezing water dribbled loudly onto the ground and splashed onto his bare feet. He tucked his legs closer and retreated further back into the box he had found an hour ago.

Before, his movements were loud in the Land of the Dead’s late-night streets. Now, the pounding rain was all he could hear and _feel_. What a cruel joke. To be nothing but animated bones yet still vulnerable to the cold. Héctor wished for the warm bed he had sold weeks ago. The money for it had paid the rent but, looking at where he was now, he might as well have tossed it into the canyon between the Land of Living and Dead. That line of thought sat uncomfortably in his ribcage and he wearily sighed it out. This miserable thinking wasn’t going to make anything better.

Through the rain, he just heard it. Footsteps quiet enough to rival a confessor in church. Héctor suddenly felt like one too as he realised the footsteps were approaching him. When the stranger’s legs were visible, shame and guilt sank into his bones deeper than the rain ever could. Don’t look at him, don’t look at him, please, don’t.

“Having fun?”

Héctor’s retort was caught in his throat. He knew that voice. Gritting his teeth, he forced out, “Plenty.”

There was a snort and a low sarcastic, “Sure.”

Squeezing his wrist as though trying to strangle the shame out of himself, Héctor turned away.

“Get up. We’re going.”

With a confused blink, Héctor asked, “Going? Going where?” his voice cut off when it dawned on him. “No. I told you, _no_!”

Undeterred, the voice growled, “You want to spend all night like this?”

Héctor’s wrist ached as his grip on it tightened. “Why not?” he answered stubbornly. “It’s a nice shower.”

“Shower, huh?” humoured the voice. “Is it better than hot soup? Better than shelter?”

Héctor didn’t answer. As though ganging up on him, the rain pelted harder and its sound drummed against his skull. Deep down, as deep as the lowest rib, he craved for a warm meal and a resting place he hadn’t rummaged from a garbage dump. Resisting temptation, Héctor reminded himself he didn’t deserve such luxuries. Not until he had secured a job again. Not until he bought and furnished a home to welcome his wife and child to when they eventually passed on, like a proper breadwinner should. He’d made foolish mistakes that tore chunks out of his reputation and _that_ was why he had been without regular work for months. Not for any other reason. Certainly not for the reason this man here was trying to suggest. Because if it _was_ the reason, then that meant … it meant…

There was an impatient sigh that failed to conceal a whispered, “Stupid.”

Bitterness rose up and tasted terrible in Héctor’s mouth. When the man spoke again he was ready.

“Listen, how about –?”

“– I said _no_!” Héctor snapped.

“Let me finish! Look…” another sigh, tired this time. The wind sounded like it was sighing too. “How about, you stay with us _until_ you find a new job?”

Shutting his eyes and pressing his forehead to his knees, Héctor moaned, “No. Please go.”

“Just for the night then,” the man said diplomatically. “Just. For. Tonight. Then, you can go off and find yourself another garbage pile to huddle in for all I care.”

Héctor gradually opened his eyes. They felt sticky from exhaustion and _nothing else_. With a sniff and trembling breath, he entertained the idea briefly before halting his thoughts. It took a moment to move beyond scolding himself for thinking he deserved charity. He only did so when logic reminded him an employer would never be impressed if he looked like a drowned street rat. A chance to rest and freshen up for another round of job-hunting tomorrow wasn’t selfish. It was logical.

Something groaned and ripped and suddenly Héctor was drenched. Spluttering and gasping, he scrambled out of the collapsed box. It looked pathetic, sagging like a performer long past their prime. His eyes stung.

“Deal?”

Héctor flinched. He hunched his shoulders and murmured, “Yes. _Fine_ …fine.”

As though imparting a secret code, the man immediately made to leave the alleyway. Stiffly, Héctor rose to his feet and followed after him. A tremor crawled through his bones as the chilly rain cascading down the alleyway swallowed up his feet. Seeing the water flood at the end, he wondered how long he could have slept there before he was washed away. Something softly bumped his elbow. It was the handle of the umbrella the man was holding. Héctor accepted it, holding it up high so both of them were covered.

Together, they slogged through the storm.

“Name’s Chicharrón.”

Héctor frowned and, despite his situation, smiled. “…Really?”

“Got a problem with that?”

“Uh. Well, no…”

The self-proclaimed Chicharrón huffed. “It’s just what I go by. Don’t read too much into it.”

“I wasn’t,” Héctor muttered, wondering if this behaviour was normal. “I was just …surprised.”

“You better have a stellar name then.”

He answered quietly, “Héctor …just Héctor.”

***

Back when the death of México’s favourite musician was still on everyone’s lips, Héctor was too busy introducing himself to every business owner to notice. After an abrupt end to his last job, Héctor had hoped the bad luck that struck his last day wouldn’t chase after him like a cat to a mouse. Unfortunately, Héctor was a loud mouse.

It was hard to request a job when businesses closed their doors upon seeing him approach. His upbeat attitude faltered at every turned shoulder, but he kept his smile on as though he had applied cement. However, by the fifth unsuccessful day, the smile had lowered to a mild grimace. His landlord had so kindly reminded him the rent was late _again_ that morning and by the afternoon, his hands were carrying returned crumbled resumés. He flattened them and appreciated the guitar skilfully strummed by the musician behind him.

The music stopped.

“Still no luck?”

Héctor glanced up and immediately regretted it. The musician was leaning against his guitar, his arm snaked around its neck in a loving hold. The musician was also a sickly yellow colour, his bones cracked and brittle like a dry crusting desert. A Nearly-Forgotten. Plague victims were treated better than these folks. For even those of religious calling refused to acknowledge their existence. Héctor would much rather keep their reality out of his too. The old Tía that raised him however rejected his concerns and demanded politeness.

“Uhh, it’s not as good as it could be,” Héctor replied. He added confidently, “Tomorrow for sure though.” That was that. He could leave now.

“I doubt that.”

“E-excuse me?”

The musician was unbothered, as though he had commented on the weather. This was why Héctor didn’t like musicians…

“You looked at yourself in the mirror lately?”

He half-heartedly laughed but it trailed off awkwardly when it became apparent the musician was waiting for an answer.

“Y-yeah?” even to himself, it sounded fake. After unceremoniously being fired for a dizzy spell of all things, Héctor had returned home and taken the mirror off the bathroom wall. It sat between the shower and cabinet. One day when all of … _this_ was over, the mirror could regain its place.

For now, though? Héctor wasn’t about to spill this to anyone, let alone a stranger. So, he plastered on a smile and prepared to leave.

“You have noticed right? Can’t ignore it forever.”

Héctor tensed and the resumés were crushed again. “I …don’t know what you mean.”

A scoff. “Look around.”

Héctor did. Dozens of skeletons window shopping and gossiping.

“I’m not the only one they’re avoiding.”

Héctor scowled at the musician. "You’re seeing things.”

“My eyes are shot but you don’t need clear sight to see it.”

“See _what_?”

The musician dryly rose an eyebrow ridge. “You know ‘what.’ When was the last time your bones shone white? When did they start to yellow like mine?”

Héctor reeled back like the musician had smacked him. “You –! You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Before the nearly-forgotten skeleton could push his problems onto him, Héctor hurried away.

***

The Land of the Dead was beautiful and spectacular in ways life could never imitate but even the darkest and loneliest elements of the Living world passed on into this realm. It settled in many places and adopted many different names. One such spot took root many centuries ago and over time became Shantytown.

It was burdened with a rundown grubby appearance, like garbage tied together with loose string and desperate wishes. The poverty that ruled over the town reminded Héctor of the suburbs abandoned and left to rot in major cities he and Ernesto visited. Yet, as Héctor would eventually discover, Shantytown was devoid of the violent aggression that choked some of the streets the young men had avoided. Unlike other exploitative and dangerous locations in the Land of the Dead, Shantytown had taken a life of its own, as though it was the one seed planted in rich soil while the others shrivelled and struggled in a poisoned garden.

In the present however, Héctor nervously followed after Chicharrón along the wooden platforms that ran though the town as its blood supply. He stared as faded skeletons emerged from their shacks and greeted them, like lonely ghosts in their haunted houses seeking company. Chicharrón gave short waves and warm replies and Héctor wondered where this nice attitude was before. His grumbling was lurched from his mouth when the wood underneath him cracked and fell into the watery depths below. Héctor jumped back and glared at Chicharrón in disbelief. The town was resting on a lake and couldn’t even get itself solid and reliable foundation?

Chicharrón gave him a look that answered, _Yes and?_

Oh. Héctor shuffled back to his guide. Soon and without any more delays, Héctor was led inside a shack. An entire wall was missing. Rain still leaked inside. Oh. Again. At least it was better than nothing.

Héctor was shown the corner to put the umbrella. He frowned as he counted twenty umbrellas bundled like sticks. Most were torn and bent. Now that Héctor’s eyes had adjusted, there were mountains of collected items everywhere, hoarding most of the space. When a tower of clothing lost its balance and slumped into a heap it felt like the walls were closing in. But this was someone’s house, though it felt generous to call this a ‘house’, so Héctor kept his remarks to himself.

Instead, he accepted the fallen clothing pile as his bed. His eyelids worked with him long enough to see Chicharrón climb into a hammock. And his mouth cooperated only to allow a firm whisper, “Just for tonight. Just tonight.”

“Sure _chamaco_ ,” he heard as he drifted off.

***

Maybe Héctor had been a little overconfident.

When the sun dipped below the horizon and dyed the sky as red as an old song once teased, Héctor found himself at Shantytown’s entrance once again. He hesitated to cross over and instead rubbed his arm, easing the throbbing pain away. That was the last time he underestimated the steep rickety stairs that scaled the old Aztec pyramids and served as the only real effort to keep the nearly-forgotten and remembered connected. Héctor’s mind had been too focused finding a reasonable excuse to explain his return when he had missed one of the steps. He seethed as he touched a particularly sensitive injury near his wrist. He hoped it healed soon.

“You’re going to join us? Or too busy admiring the scenery?”

Up ahead, four women cackled as they huddled close to a fire. One wrapped in a loose shawl beckoned him forward, half of her finger bones lost and the rest splintered. Another gestured to the table of cards and drinks on a stool beside her. Childhood nightmares of witches boiling a cauldron to cook him in surfaced and Héctor tried to think of a polite excuse to avoid their hospitability. But a hand on his back, a shove forward and grumbling from Chicharrón to “sit down already and relax,” soon had him joining the game and thoroughly losing it. By the end of the session though, he found he didn’t mind it and promised to win next time.

***

Although Héctor insisted his stay was temporary, he soon learnt and played along to Shantytown’s tune. At first glance, it was like a dejected swamp, discouraging visitors with its unkempt and still environment as though it was trapped in a much slower timeline. It only needed a second look to see the swamp as the natural habitat it was, where life was as abundant and exuberant as any other rainforest.

No matter where Héctor went, he could hear a conversation running, a bottle lid popping or a musical instrument singing, and sometimes all at once when the parties were in full swing. Even when the music occasionally stopped at the crack of another thing broken – ranging from a table to bones – it never took long to start back up again. Because, Héctor realised, though first impressions presented Shantytown as labouring through time like mud, it was actually the opposite.

Time wasn’t slow here at all. But quick. Too quick.

When Shantytown fell silent, it did so in unison to the latest voice gone forever. Making day trips to the markets had so far spared Héctor of witnessing it. As a temporary visitor, he vowed to keep it that way. This wasn’t his business. He would raise a glass in a toast and he would make apologies to those closest, but he _wasn’t_ a part of this.

***

Situated at the highest point was the largest shack in Shantytown. Which wasn’t saying much. Its walls were wrapped around a pillar of the bridge that loomed over them. Its structure was noticeably free of holes and grime. Compared to everything else, the owner of the place was living an afterlife of comfort. However, comparing it to the homes of the remembered was laughable and tragic if pondered for too long so best talk about something else. Still, Héctor’s curiosity was poked and prodded every time he passed it and he would appreciate some answers.

“It’s my place,” said a woman.

Tía Berta to the Shantytown folk and _just_ Berta to Héctor was a common sight around town. Like everyone, she spent hours begging for pesos to fund repairs for the latest broken thing. Unlike them, dancing and drinking were ignored in favour of relentlessly interrogating someone throughout the whole party. A constant companion to her questions was a thick old book and a pen pulled out of her hair. After her fifth attempt trying to pry his life story, Héctor turned on his heel and walked the other way whenever he saw her. There were only so many times one could politely request to be left alone.

“You like it?” she asked, showing off her toothless grin. She patted the book on her lap. “You’re welcome to visit any time you want. Have a good chat.”

“Sorry,” Héctor brushed it off with a shrug. “I promised Chich I’d go fishing with him.”

Chich paused his eating and glared up at him. “No, you didn’t.”

“I am now,” Héctor said brightly.

Berta’s body shook as she chuckled.

***

Back when he still had an apartment, Héctor’s infamy at the Department of Family Reunions was equally matched in the business sector. A few rejected resumés became multiple as shop owners grew tired of him. What were once sympathetic looks had turned into scowls and demands to “leave and don’t come back!” Starting the day with the same determination behind every bridge crossing attempt had darkened into a desperate aching that sat lodged in his throat.

It didn’t help to see that … _musician_ show up every day. Sometimes, words were thrown back and forth like weapons. Other times, all the man had to do was give Héctor a look and that felt far worse than any physical wound. But he pushed forward, asking – requesting – _begging_ – for a job all while haunted by the dwindling numbers in his bank account and the bankers’ shaking heads.

“You can’t ignore it forever,” the musician liked to repeat.

 _Watch me_ , Héctor thought.

But one day found him crossing paths with a woman carrying the proof of her shopping spree. A gust of wind threw her hat off and the surprise loosened her grip on a bag. It landed with a thud and groceries spilled out onto the street. Héctor tucked his resumés under his armpit and picked up the items as the woman bent down for her hat.

“ _Gracias_ ,” she said.

“It’s no problem,” Héctor replied and offered the bag.

Hat tucked on her head, she glanced up as she reached out –

– Her eyes widened. She gasped loudly, stumbling back. In the silence that followed, her exclamation echoed around them like a gunshot.

Hit by the bullet, Héctor struggled to keep his composure as he continued to hold the bag. He wanted to say something, _anything_ , but for all his song writing skills, he couldn’t find the words. Swallowing thickly, he lowered the bag and backed away until the woman felt calm enough to take it and go. Her gasp rang in his skull and his hands felt rubbery as he cradled them. He looked at them. _Really_ looked at them. And saw it again. Saw that it hadn’t been a trick of the eye.

In the moment the woman’s hand had neared his to take the bag, both had seen it and couldn’t ignore it. Her bones were as white as pearls strung into a necklace. While his …

…in the apartment, Héctor pulled out the mirror and hung it up again.

What he saw made him grip the sink until his yellowed bones throbbed.

The mirror was the first thing he sold. The landlord’s patience was all dried up.

Next were his table, chairs and couches.

After that the cabinets, wardrobe and bookcase.

The appliances not long after.

The bed was hard to let go.

But soon, it was the –

And after that the –

And next –

And then, and then, and then …

***

Héctor wasn’t in the habit of giving up.

The moment he entered the café and spotted his old landlord, his confidence was battered like a boat caught in a storm. However, even under the heavy weight of the man’s sceptical gaze, Héctor was determined to introduce himself to the café’s owner. Then his landlord had spoken up.

“What are you _doing_ here?”

Héctor rubbed his eyes and sucked in a laborious breath. He couldn’t get those words out of his head. Everyone in the café had turned to look. They couldn’t ignore it, he couldn’t ignore it. Héctor _wasn’t_ in the habit of giving up but he ran. A sickly burning prickled all over his body and something in his chest swelled painfully.

Héctor tried to shove it aside but he couldn’t stop hearing those words.

The next thing he knew, he was in Shantytown. His shoulders fell. Even with his mind occupied, he had made it back without a map’s guide. He had traversed the steep stairs as easily as flat road. He clung at his wrist again and felt the sting of the injury that refused to heal. He travelled along the platforms and mumbled greetings to the neighbours until he met Chich at his shack.

“Come on, showing you something.”

Héctor was too tired to argue. He was led to the tallest point in Shantytown feeling like the ghost he truly was floating through a cemetery. In his head a voice dug its heels in, recoiling at the thought of Tía Berta. It was efficiently stamped out by the landlord’s sharp words.

Tía Berta opened her door as they climbed the staircase. “Cousin Héctor,” she said and Héctor failed to flinch from the bestowed title though he absentmindedly knew he should have.

Inside, he was seated at a table. Chich pulled up a chair and Tía Berta shuffled over to a stuffed bookcase. Héctor’s face creased as he realised the bookcase rose to the ceiling, widened to the corners and bled into other bookcases that made up all four walls of the shack. Tía Berta picked out a book and a pen from her hair and brought them to him. The book’s spine groaned as she opened it. It was filled with handwriting, each page sporting a different scrawl. Beginning each long paragraph were names and dates. As he read them, their significance sank in, as though the words were inscribed into his bones.

They were life stories. Héctor carefully flipped through the pages and stared at the books surrounding him like a court room. Here was a library containing hundreds of memories of those who lived and who had lived in Shantytown. Héctor landed on an empty page and the swelling in his chest spiked. Tía Berta offered him a sad smile and the pen. Beside him, Chich allowed the same sympathy to show through his rough exterior.

As though moving on his own, Héctor reached out to take the pen. His and Tía Berta’s bones matched in colour. A shaky breath escaped him.

“Don’t make me do this,” someone begged

Tía Berta or Chich hadn’t spoken. That couldn’t have been him, right? That quivering miserable voice sounded nothing like Imelda’s husband and Coco’s Papá. Numbly, he realised it had been Cousin Héctor.

When Tía Berta tried to take back the book, Héctor resisted. There were no more voices trying to convince him of a fantasy. All he had left was this reality. A reality without a job, without a family, without a chance to see them every year. Where it hadn’t been a dizzy spell that lost his job but his memory taking a blow the night a bell killed a famous musician. Where he had no place among the remembered.

All was silent except for pen against paper as Shantytown’s newest member wrote down his story.

He foolishly wished for his loved ones to throw open the door and rescue him, before he signed his story off with his name and dates. But no one came. Of course, no one came. He was writing in a book served to remember those who had no one left to do it for them.

And this meant ...it meant...

They didn't love him. 

The very loved ones that defined his story were why he had to record it in the first place.  

Soon, the book was returned to its brethren. A pen was laid aside. And Héctor softly sobbed, feeling something in him shatter and break in a way that could never truly heal.  

***

Decades later, the same shack hosted the recently discovered true genius behind de la Cruz’s songs. It’s owner, the keeper of the books, shuddered as she failed to suppress her tears.

“In would mean the world to me, to all of us,” she whispered, her deepest wish answered at last. “But why? You never …”

“I’m never abandoning my family again.”

She chuckled wetly until it was abruptly cut off by a golden light. Her weakened hands were gently held by his. Already, his bones were gleaming with memories. “Héctor …” she said, so quietly he had to lean in close. “I don’t … I don’t want to be forgotten.”

Relief spilled from her eyes as he accepted the book and the library around them, promising to protect their stories forever.

“You won’t be.”

**Author's Note:**

> Didn't think I was ever going to write something for this friendly competition but I finally got it done. Finally! Hope you guys like it alright.


End file.
